


Bodily Harm

by tiaoconnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Kink Meme, Punishment, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9610487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiaoconnell/pseuds/tiaoconnell
Summary: Fill for BBC Sherlock Kink Meme: Set post "The Lying Detective." Mycroft punishes Sherlock for nearly killing himself to save John. Severe punishment, semi non-con, includes spanking and genital spanking; dark overtones. Don't like, don't read.Original Prompt: Someone, or several someones, spanks Sherlock long and hard, concentrating on his genitals. They use their hand and other implements. Sherlock does not want or enjoy this. It's not only humiliating, it's horrifically painful.





	1. Chapter One

The sound of footfalls on the stairs outside 221B reached Sherlock’s ears even as he dozed on the sofa. He knew that pattern of footsteps anywhere—it was Mycroft. The consulting detective opened his bleary eyes, blinking a few times to focus them.

“Sounds like your brother is here,” John said. He took a look at his watch and nodded. “Right on time too.” It was early in Sherlock’s rehabilitation after nearly killing himself to ‘save’ John and everyone was still taking shifts to watch over him. Frankly, he needed it. The cravings were strong again after such heavy use. He rose from his chair by the fireplace and opened the door, giving Mycroft a nod in greeting.

“Thanks for coming on time,” John told the other man sincerely. “Molly has Rosie today and I try not to overtax her. Infants are exhausting.” He looked over the sofa, then back at Mycroft and lowered his voice. “He’s had a rough night. I have some nausea medication in the loo for him, the directions are on it, should he need it. The flat’s clean, I checked it again a few hours ago.” It was an exhausting process, searching the flat inch by inch, but one that needed to be done.

As John filled Mycroft in on the recent developments with his younger brother, he noticed a rather large duffle bag in the elder Holmes’s hand. “What’s that?” he asked, inclining his head at the bag.

“I have cleared my schedule for the next 24 hours to spend some… quality time with my brother,” Mycroft replied. “I’ve informed Miss Hooper and DI Lestrade that they will not be needed for their upcoming shifts as I will be here.”

John’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’m sure they’re thankful for the break. That’s… unexpectedly kind of you.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. “Do go collect your child, Dr. Watson. I shall call if we require medical advice of some sort, but I doubt that will be necessary.” He stood aside so he was no longer blocking the door; a strong indication that John should leave at once. After saying his goodbyes to Sherlock, John did in fact go. The door was shut and locked behind him before Mycroft addressed his brother.

“I’m sure you know why I’m here for the duration and why this--” He held up the duffel bag. “Is here with me.” Mycroft crossed the room and set the bag on the floor beside the couch. “Budge up Sherlock,” he directed, taking a seat on the couch when Sherlock did so. Immediately he guided Sherlock’s head back to his lap and began to run his fingers through the messy mop of curls. “You’ve been a naughty boy Sherlock. A very, very naughty little boy, haven’t you?” Mycroft was unsurprised when Sherlock chose not to respond. “Scaring your friends that way, scaring Mummy and Dad, putting your life at risk.”

“You didn’t try to stop me,” Sherlock pointed out, his tone somewhat dull. “Even though you were watching.”

The elder Holmes sighed and shook his head. “No, I did not. I’ve learned from experience that you do not listen, especially when it comes to Dr. Watson. I knew what you were doing,” he confirmed. “Your life, however, is a large price to pay to pull John out of his misery. A price that is, quite frankly, unacceptable. What did I say would happen the next time you gave in to your addiction? Do you remember?”

Sherlock’s face burned red as he nodded. “You’d make me the sorriest little boy in the world,” he mumbled, clearly embarrassed. This wasn’t a new thing, Mycroft making threats and providing consequences for his drug use. It had never been something that Sherlock agreed to, or wanted, but it had evolved out of their relationship growing up. Mycroft had always been the one minding Sherlock and, when he grew too wild for Mum and Dad to handle, Mycroft had taken him in hand. It was humiliating, being spanked by his big brother like a little child, so it had turned out to be an effective measure.

As Sherlock became involved in drugs, he found himself called to the carpet more and more often, each time dreading it and promising to stay away. Whenever he slipped, Mycroft came to find him with that bloody duffel bag. No matter how much he protested, shouted, attempted to flee, and on occasion physically fight Mycroft, Sherlock was always subdued in the end and thoroughly punished. Mycroft never did things by half measure, after all, and if he was putting effort into a spanking, it would be given on every possible spankable surface there was. It was a process guaranteed to make Sherlock very, very sorry and unbelievably sore.

“Please don’t,” Sherlock whimpered. There would be no physical fight or attempt to flee today. He was far too worn out from withdrawal to make such an effort. But the punishment coming his way was not one he consented to, merely one he submitted to.

“I’m not going to take that request seriously,” Mycroft said firmly, giving the curls in his hand a bit of a tug. “You nearly killed yourself, the serial killer’s attempt aside, using so much for so long and did not even make a list of what you took, which you promised me you would always do. Not to mention that you made Mummy cry, a sin worthy of a spanking all on its own. No reprieve Sherlock, to any part of it. If you’re a very good, cooperative little boy for your spanking and don’t clench your cheeks too much, I’ll skip the ginger root,” Mycroft offered. “But that is the most leniency you’ll see from me.”

Sherlock whimpered again and turned over on the couch so he could hide his face against Mycroft’s abdomen.

“I know, I know,” Mycroft said gently, running his hands through Sherlock’s curls again. “Take a few minutes to whine and whimper about it, I know you need to. But then it’s time to get started. No delays Sherlock, no diversions or dalliances,” he warned. He then waited patiently as several quiet moments passed while Sherlock resigned himself to the inevitable.

“Alright, that’s enough time for whimpers,” Mycroft finally declared. “Get up young man and strip. Put your clothes away nicely when you’re finished.” When Sherlock rose from the couch, Mycroft did too, and reached for the duffel bag. Inside it were all the implements Mycroft had decided to bring with—it was always good to have variety---as well as a ginger root. That went into the fridge before Mycroft unpacked the items one by one. A thin leather strap, a cane, a wooden spoon, a belt, a paint stirrer type paddle dubbed ‘the naughty stick’ (an implement from their own childhood spankings), and a cock ring to help Sherlock present his genitals for punishment should he struggle with doing so. For now the fabric ties he’d brought with would remain in the bag. If Sherlock struggled to obey and maintain position, they would be used to restrain him.

Putting the duffle bag aside, Mycroft shed his suit jacket and laid it neatly on Sherlock’s chair by the fireplace. He began to roll up his sleeves then, watching Sherlock fold his clothing and take it to his room. His brother then emerged, brilliantly red faced with his hands protectively covering his penis. “Hands at your sides or behind your back Sherlock,” Mycroft said sternly. “Modesty is a privilege, not a right, when you’re in this much trouble.”

An inner battled waged on Sherlock’s face as he struggled with the idea of obeying. A part of him didn’t dare to refuse, but it was difficult to do so. This might be surprising, given his penchant for walking around Baker Street nude or covered only in a sheet, but there was a difference between being naked at his pleasure and being forced to be naked for punishment sake. Finally, as Mycroft gave him a withering gaze, Sherlock put his hands behind his back and hung his head.

Please to see Sherlock obey, Mycroft watched him a moment longer before turning away and going into the kitchen. His brother was undoubtedly going to be shedding many tears today and having a pitcher of cold water available would be handy for helping him replenish those fluids. It took him a few moments digging in the ill organized space to find a pitcher that didn’t look as though it were growing poison. Mycroft promptly filled that with water, put the lid on, and placed it into the fridge.

“Center of the room,” he called to Sherlock as he headed back to the sitting room. “Stand in the center of the room and spread your legs. Do _not_ give me those sad eyes, little boy. Not after you nearly killed yourself in an elaborate, sentiment fueled stunt.”

Swallowing hard, Sherlock moved to the center of the room and spread his legs, keeping his hands behind his back. Immediately his eyes went to the floor as a red flush of embarrassment went over his whole body. As Mycroft approached him, the younger Holmes cringed and tensed in anticipation.

Rather than reach for him roughly, at least for the moment, Mycroft cupped Sherlock’s chin and lifted his head. “I love you Sherlock, and you know that. That is why I do this, and for no other reason. You never have been and never will be allowed to put drugs in your body without consequences. After today I want you to think two, three, even four times before contemplating using again and to make sure that happens, I am going to ensure that you associate drugs with the pain of a most thorough spanking. Is that clear?”

When Sherlock whispered a “yes sir,” Mycroft nodded let go of his chin. “Let’s begin then. I’m sure you remember how this goes, but it’s clearly been too long since the last time.” Mycroft moved to Sherlock’s right side and reached for his limp cock, grasping it with his left hand, pulling it up towards Sherlock’s belly to expose his balls. He gave a warning tap against them with his right hand before drawing it back and delivering a resounding smack to Sherlock’s scrotum.

An intense frisson of pain shot through Sherlock’s body as Mycroft spanked his scrotum. That place was not meant to be spanked and he wheezed through the pain, his eyes bulging a bit. Sherlock thought briefly about trying to move away and avoid further smacks, but Mycroft had a good hold on his cock and it would hurt worse to try and pull it away than it would be take his humiliating punishment.

“Yes, hurts doesn’t it?” Mycroft asked, delivering a second smack. It was followed quickly by a third and fourth as Sherlock trembled beside him, gasping for breath. “You’ve been a **very naughty boy** ,” he continued, emphasizing those words with sharp smacks. The scrotum was turning red and beginning to swell already in response to the spanking. Be continued to apply hard, relatively fast paced smacks to that tender region of Sherlock’s anatomy, completely unsurprised when Sherlock broke down in tears.

“Please, please stop, please!” Sherlock begged, his voice high and tearful. “I’m sorry, please!” His knees shook, making him uncertain that his legs would hold him up much longer. “I’m sorry sir, I’m sorry!”

Mycroft did pause at that, but did not released Sherlock’s penis. “I’m sure you sorry—sorry that you’re being punished. By the time we’re finished today, you’ll be truly sorry. We are far from finished and you are well aware of that,” he said sternly. “And you know precisely how to avoid being punished in the future!” He squeezed Sherlock’s cock tightly, then loosened his grip a bit, before continuing to reign smacks on Sherlock’s balls. The strength behind the smacks made his hand sting and that was why Mycroft brought implements he knew he could use for just such a spanking.

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to sob in earnest and try to dance away from further blows. He had no idea how many times Mycroft had spanked his sac at this point, he merely wanted it to stop and continued to plead for mercy through his tears and wheezing.

After delivering twenty solid smacks to Sherlock’s scrotum, Mycroft released his brother’s cock and gave him a moment to catch his breath. “Put your legs closer together and steady yourself,” he directed. When Sherlock’s breathing resumed a somewhat normal pace, Mycroft knew it was time to go on. “You will stay still or I’ll make you wish you had, little boy,” he warned, giving the limp cock a warning pat. Once more Mycroft raised his hand and brought it down with a smack, full force on Sherlock’s cock.

Letting out a strangled shout, Sherlock dropped to his knees and resumed the sobs that had earlier faded. He hated how much this hurt and how humiliating it was and how it made him bawl like a baby. Sherlock was destined to bawl even more as Mycroft merely knelt beside his brother and continued to dole out devastating strikes to the rapidly reddening member.

Each one was silently counted in Mycroft’s head with a goal of fifteen in total…. Fifteen with his hand that was! A part of Mycroft admired his brother’s strength in not trying to deter him from delivering the punishment despite the pain Sherlock was in. Perhaps he’d learned something last time after all! As Sherlock’s cries became more desperate and high pitched, Mycroft began to count the strokes out loud for him. “Fifteen Sherlock and then you may have a break. Twelve…” _Crack_. “Thirteen…” _Crack_. “Fourteen…” _Crack._ “Fifteen.” _Crack._

When Mycroft finally stopped, Sherlock curled up in a ball on the floor and bawled brokenly. He was vaguely aware of Mycroft getting up and washing his hands in the kitchen before returning to his side. Then, a gentle hand was running through his curls as he wailed.

“I don’t like doing this Sherlock,” Mycroft sincerely told him. “You push yourself to this point with the drugs. I’d rather do this a thousand times than lose you to cocaine and god only know what else. The power to avoid this in the future is yours. Resist the temptation Sherlock, no matter what the reasons behind it. For now, take some deep breaths and work through the pain. In a short while, I’m going to put you over my knee and warm that bottom of yours before we move on to other intimate areas.”

Sherlock threw him a terrified look. Surely he couldn’t mean…

“Oh yes,” Mycroft confirmed. “Between your cheeks, your inner thighs, and your anus are all going to be well spanked by the time we finish today. This is meant to be memorable Sherlock, and be a deterrent for the future. It won’t do any good if I fail to make it memorable and incredibly painful. But for now just breathe through the pain. I’m right here.”

For some reason, Sherlock found that comforting, having Mycroft beside him stroking his hair. In truth he had known that Mycroft would come to punish him and in a way it was reassuring. Big brother always set him back on the right path, no matter how many times he fell off of it.

\------------------------------------

For the next twenty minutes or so, Mycroft encouraged his little brother to eat and drink. It was important that Sherlock do so, both for recovery from the drugs and to make sure Sherlock wouldn’t be adversely affected by his punishment—aside from the obvious. “It’s time to move on now,” Mycroft finally said. “Let’s get up from the floor, shall we?” He looked around the flat, trying to decide where the best place to deliver a spanking across his knee would be. Ultimately he selected John’s chair and sat down. Mycroft didn’t sit all the way back to the backrest, but sat forward, so there was ample room for his gangly little brother to go over his lap.

“Come here little boy,” Mycroft said sternly. He patted his knee and gave Sherlock a stern look. “Bring the spoon with you. I think you’ve been far too naughty for a warm up with my hand. We’ll get straight down to business paddling your bottom soundly.”

With great reluctance, Sherlock rose from the floor and retrieved the wooden spoon from amongst the implements Mycroft had chosen to bring. He shuffled his feet as he crossed the sitting room to where his brother sat, somewhat offended that Mycroft had chosen John’s chair, and handed the spoon to his brother before beginning to bend over his knee.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Mycroft said, preventing Sherlock from bending over. “I do believe you’re forgetting something, young man.” He watched as Sherlock’s face bloomed a brilliant red and raised an eyebrow at his silence. “I’m waiting.”

“May I please have my spanking?” the younger man mumbled out. Sherlock yelped as the spoon connected with the back of his thigh.

“Try again,” Mycroft ordered.

Sherlock scowled darkly at his big brother. God, how he hated being forced to utter such humiliating words. His scowl had no effect thought, this was Mycroft after all, so Sherlock huffed and complied. “Please sir, may I have my spanking to teach me to be a good little boy?”

“You may.” Mycroft spread his legs wide, then allowed Sherlock to bend over them. Given that Sherlock’s cock must be hurting like the devil and had more punishment to come, there was no reason to make Sherlock lie on it against his lap. He wasn’t a sadist, after all, and did have compassion for his wayward brother. Spoon in hand, Mycroft tapped it against Sherlock’s bottom in warning before bringing it down in a crushing blow against the white skin. A rounded pink splotch rose in the wake of that smack. Not one to do things by half measure, Mycroft began peppering Sherlock’s bottom- far too white at this point- with hearty, solid smacks at a quick pace. The pink oval splotches soon melded into a solid color across both globes, then turned redder as the spanking continued on.

For a few minutes at least, Sherlock tried to take his spanking with whatever dignity he could muster. It wasn’t easy, given the fast pace and the incredible sting the spoon wielded. Though he didn’t cry out, Sherlock was soon squirming over his brother’s lap, moving his hips from side to side and pounding his toes on the floor.

“You’re allowed to cry you know,” Mycroft commented. His tone was so easy and conversational, as if he didn’t have a squirming man over his lap whose arse he was walloping. “I won’t think less of you just because it’s a spanking. It’s meant to hurt and make you very sorry. You may cry and howl as needed. You’re turning such a pretty rosy red back here.”

Sherlock grunted and growled at his brother’s words. He would cry if he wanted to, or not cry if he wanted to! His purpose in this was to submit and learn, not to cry on demand! Though tears were, in all honesty, not far off. His skin was on fire as the spoon fell again and again in a painful dance all over his cheeks. From crest to sit spots and every area in between, the skin fairly glowed, a visual indicator of how much it burned and ached. Then, the spoon seemed to pause.

Right before it landed with a mighty crack on his right sit spot. Sherlock howled and immediately kicked in response. The spoon focused solely on that sit spot, turning it pink, then red, then crimson as it fell repeatedly. A dozen spanks to that tender area drove Sherlock to tears. Not quiet, dignified tears, but tears of distress. It bloody hurt! It was nearly a relief when Mycroft moved to the left sit spot to follow that same pattern, and his tears rose in response.

“For now we’ll leave your thighs be. The naughty stick will paint them a hot red later on, all the way down to your knees and the cane will stripe them. Dear me, I do see some white areas left. That won’t do,” Mycroft commented. He had no idea if his brother could hear him over his tears, but the scolding and humiliating rhetoric was part of the punishment. With surprising ease, Mycroft moved Sherlock over his lap to where he was straddling Mycroft’s left knee, facing backwards. This position opened the cleft much more than the traditional over the knee position and those inner cheeks would need to be well spanked too.

“No, no, no, please,” Sherlock wept. “It’s going to hurt so much, please don’t Mycroft!” He reached for the pillow that sat in the chair and hugged it to his chest, knowing Mycroft would not be the least bit moved by his pleas. He could feel his big brother’s hand on his hot, hot cheek, pulling it back a bit to expose the skin of the cleft.

“Hold steady now Sherlock,” Mycroft warned. “Your perineum is quite exposed in this position and I’m not above smacking it if you cannot behave. You will take your spanking, all of it, like a good little boy. There are consequences if you chose not to be a good boy.” Once more he tapped the spoon against Sherlock’s skin before bringing the rounded head of it down with a terrific smack. It smacked that tender skin repeatedly, moving up and down the left side of the cleft. Given the sensitive nature of that area, Mycroft tried to avoid bruising, at least for the present. Right now, sizzling and throbbing skin was the goal.

Sherlock struggled to stay over Mycroft’s lap and not make an escape attempt. He buried his face in the pillow, howling and sobbing into it. This was exquisitely painful and tantamount to torture, Sherlock was certain of it. Moving his hips and kicking his legs, he wasn’t surprised to feel Mycroft use his right leg to trap Sherlock’s kicking one.

“You’re being difficult brother mine,” Mycroft warned as he switched sides. The right side of Sherlock’s cleft was readily set on fire to match the left as Sherlock squirmed and sobbed with abandon. When both sides were crimson in color, he tapped the spoon against Sherlock’s perineum. He had, after all, warned him. Kicking to the point of needing restraint was not acceptable.  The spoon fell with a sharp smack against that area and Sherlock nearly flew off the chair. “I told you Sherlock, and you chose to be naughty,” Mycroft said sternly. Slowly and methodically he smacked that tender area between scrotum and anus, mentally counting the swats. Even with Sherlock’s head buried in the pillow, Mycroft could tell he was screaming in response.

After a dozen good smacks, Mycroft stopped to inspect the perineum. It was a dark, dark red and looked to be rapidly swelling. Hopefully it would induce Sherlock to be cooperative, or ask to be restrained, going forward. “Alright now, we’ll put the spoon down,” Mycroft decided. He began to gently rub the small of Sherlock’s back as his little brother struggled to calm down. “You need to breathe Sherlock, remember to breathe. There’s no other way to deal with the pain but to breathe through it. Even if you haven’t been entirely cooperative, you’re being brave and I do see that.” A little praise wouldn’t hurt.

“By the time this is all over, you’re going to be good as gold, aren’t you? Be my very good boy and take better care of yourself, won’t you? Should we perhaps visit the issue of maintenance spankings for a while? Make certain the lesson lasts?” Unsurprisingly, Sherlock vehemently shook his head no. “For now, we’ll leave that as an option available to us, if I find you need it. Might do you a lot of good, being turned over my knee once a week for a good paddling. Probably make you rather easier to work with too. Your people skills are by and large deplorable. I’ll think on it, but for now we won’t plan on it.”

He fell silent then, continuing to rub Sherlock’s back for several minutes, until the younger man began to quiet. “Alright Sherlock, up you get,” he said firmly. “Go stand in the corner please, hands on your head. I’m going to make tea and after I’ve had a cuppa, we’ll go on. You should have some too. No rubbing little boy,” Mycroft reminded Sherlock as he shuffled over to the nearest empty corner.

As Mycroft went into the kitchen to make tea, Sherlock continued to cry quietly in the corner. Why was he so stupid to use again?! It seemed such a simple thing to say no to, particularly when reprisal from Mycroft was sure to be stern and swift. It hadn’t been that simple though, not this time. This time he had to save John Watson and he was willing to do whatever was necessary to do so. Sherlock hadn’t stopped to think about the damage he was doing to his body or the long recovery process from withdrawal and kidney failure. Oh, he’s been aware of those things of course, but such issues paled in comparison to John drowning in his sorrow if he failed to act. If he had it all to do over again, Sherlock was certain he would make the same choice. He would do anything for John Watson.

When the tea was ready, Mycroft called his brother from the corner. They drank the tea in silence, their minds occupied by other thoughts than holding a conversation. Sherlock worried about what was coming next. Mycroft was analyzing his brother’s mental and physical state and pondering which portion of the punishment to move on to next. It had been some time since the initial cock spanking. Perhaps it was time to revisit Sherlock’s member and spank his inner thighs.

“Is it time?”

Sherlock’s voice broke Mycroft out of his reverie. His brother’s cup was empty and he looked anxious, standing there naked with his tea cup. “Yes, it is,” Mycroft agreed. He put their cups into the sink before returning to the sitting room and looking over the items he’d brought with, ultimately selecting the naughty stick. Bringing it to Sherlock’s desk, he moved several items away from the edge of it, then crooked his finger at Sherlock. “Come here little boy. Put your cock on the desk for a good smacking.”

Hanging his head, hands protectively covering his genitals, Sherlock did as he was told. Standing beside the desk, his limp cock rested on the top of it, presenting itself for punishment. “I don’t… I’m not…Brother, please…” Sherlock struggled to get out what he was trying to say, but luckily for him, Mycroft understood.

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured. He retrieved a fabric tie from the duffel bag and tied Sherlock’s hands together at the wrist behind his back. “Good boy,” he praised. “Hold steady now, plant your feet well on the floor.” He took hold of Sherlock’s arm with his left hand, hoping to help keep Sherlock on his feet, and swung the naughty stick down to connect with the well positioned dick.

“Uuuunnnhhh gaaaahhh,” Sherlock gasped and groaned. Tears filled his eyes as his dick throbbed painfully and his knees shook in response to the pain. It was a good thing he’d been restrained otherwise he’d be pulling away and covering himself. Instead, he stayed there, as steady as possible, while Mycroft landed blow after blow with the naughty stick. It was thin, about the size of a paint stirrer, making it perfect for spanking genitals without causing serious damage; only considerable pain and, if used long and hard enough, bruises.

Mycroft kept up a somewhat brisk pace of strokes, landing them about thirty seconds apart. It gave Sherlock enough time to keep from falling over, but not enough time to become adjusted to the pain. Once more he mentally counted the strokes, noting the way Sherlock’s penis jerked every so often in response to the pain. It wasn’t arousal, simply overstimulation. The earlier redness had faded, but was quickly resurrected under the stinging slaps of the naughty stick.

It only took a few slaps for Sherlock to break down in tears again. His already sensitive member was again being assaulted, making it throb, ache and burn with a fierceness that was more than a little alarming. “Ahhhh! Mycroft please! P-p-p-please stop-p-p-p-p! Please, god, please!” Sherlock wheezed, struggling to make sense through his tears. Loud tears quickly overrode his ability to plead, becoming shoulder shaking sobs. Each slap created a sharp pain that ran from his dick and up and down his body like a jolt of electricity.

“I hope you’re beginning to regret your choices Sherlock,” Mycroft commented as he spanked. “And that you’ll make better ones in the future. You will never be too old for big brother to thoroughly punish you and make you a sorry little boy. I will always take care of you Sherlock.” He dealt the final two smacks, bringing it to an even dozen. Mycroft set the implement aside, for the moment, and untied Sherlock’s wrists. “No break this time. Go lie down on the couch on your back and raise your legs. Time to paint those thighs a painful red. Go on little boy.” He gave Sherlock a sharp smack on the bum to propel him on his way, noting how his brother’s legs trembled as he walked.

\-----------------------------

The naughty stick was returned to the pile of implements as Sherlock hobbled his way to the couch. As he’d been instructed, Sherlock laid on his back and raised his legs and waited for Mycroft in that position. He swiped angrily at the tears still running down his face and wondered, on a certain level, whether he’d ever be able to use his dick again after this. Granted, he knew anatomy and what sort of stresses it could take, and so Sherlock knew he would in fact be able to use it again. Actually wanting to do so, however, was a whole other matter!

Seeing Sherlock struggling to rein in his tears, Mycroft lingered over the implements for a few minutes before making his selection. A wide leather belt was chosen and a second fabric tie was collected from inside the duffel bag. “Are you going to be able to keep your hands away?” Mycroft inquired as he crossed the room to the couch.

“I can tie your hands for you or you may hug a small cushion to your chest if that will help. Your hands must not get in the way Sherlock. I’m quite serious about that. If you’re naughty and interfere or thrash about too much, there is still the ginger root in the fridge. Do you really want to find out what that feels like, being put into your tight and swollen hole after it’s been well smacked?” And a very well spanked anus it would be indeed- Mycroft planned to use both the thin strap and the cane to punish that hole severely.

Whimpering, Sherlock shook his head. He most definitely did not need Mycroft to find ways to make this more unbearable for him! “Cushion,” he said softly, before his lower lip began to tremble. A torrent of tears was not far away at this point. When Mycroft handed him a cushion, Sherlock hugged it tightly to his chest and shut his eyes.

“If you find that you require restraint, find a clear way to tell me,” Mycroft cautioned. “Keep your feet together no.” As Sherlock put his feet together and kept his legs in the air, a particularly childish and exposing position, Mycroft used a fabric tie to bind his feet together. It would give him something to hold onto should Sherlock prove unable to keep his legs in the air on his own power. He adjusted Sherlock’s legs to the appropriate position when he heard his little brother speak, barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry.” The words were said so quietly, in a tone far from the usual one Sherlock used. It was young and vulnerable sounding, giving Mycroft’s heartstrings a firm tug. “I’m sorry I used and hurt myself by using and made Mummy cry. I’m so sorry Mycroft.”

In that moment, it was difficult for Mycroft to see his brother as an adult. Sherlock sounded so much like a child, eager for forgiveness, that it reminded him of years- and punishments- past. He allowed his stern demeanor to slip away and put Sherlock’s legs down on the couch. Gently, he reached out to Sherlock and ran his fingers through the unruly curls, trying to reassure him with the gesture.

“I know you are, brother mine. I believe that you are sorry and regret your actions. Nothing would please me more than declaring the lesson well learned and end this now. You and I both know we cannot do that,” Mycroft explained, his tone gentle. This wasn’t a moment to scold and be stern or remind Sherlock how very naughty he’d been. Now was the time to gently but firmly reassure him and continue on.

“However, just because you are sorry Sherlock, does not mean you don’t deserve to be punished. By and large you’ve been a good boy for me, made me proud. This is not easy and yet you’ve submitted time and again. Well done, brother mine. It’s time to go on now, do you understand?” A part of Mycroft wished he could say they were done or almost done, but he couldn’t in good conscience do so. There was still punishment to come.

There were several seconds of hesitation before Sherlock slowly nodded his head and replied, “Yes, sir.” Each time Mycroft punished him in this way, Sherlock began to break down his internal barriers and yearn for absolution and even praise from Mycroft. It forced him by the end not only to submit physically, but mentally, leaving him feeling very young and clingy. Already he could pinpoint that slow descent to simply being a well-spanked little boy.

Mycroft gave Sherlock’s head a fond pat before returning to the task at hand. He indicated for Sherlock to lift his legs and once more moved them to a better position of his choosing, then held on to the fabric tie at the ankles. With the leather belt in his right hand, Mycroft tapped it against Sherlock’s bare and very red cheeks. After that warning the belt was raised before it again connected with Sherlock’s skin, snapping down hard across his sit spots. Slowly, meticulously even, Mycroft worked his way up from the sit spots, intending to paint Sherlock’s white thighs pink, then red.

When the belt was raised, Sherlock squeezed the cushion tightly and shut his eyes once more. He didn’t want to watch the belt swinging again and again, as he knew it would. There was nothing he could do about the sounds the belt made: the swish as it moved through the air and the thwack as it impacted his skin. In this position, the skin was tightly stretched, making any spanking that much worse. Had Mycroft asked, Sherlock would happily have assured his big brother that such measures were unnecessary. Sadly, Mycroft didn’t ever ask for his input, so all he could do was block out the visual.

The thwack of the belt against his sit spots was quite loud in the otherwise silent room. Sherlock first felt the impact, the force of the belt snapping against that tender area, then the pain blossomed across that same area. He immediately whined in response to the sharp sting the leather left behind, which was compounded by successive strokes of the belt.

Again and again it snapped down, leaving a trail of fire in its wake that slowly climbed upwards towards Sherlock’s knees. This was bad enough on its own, but Mycroft made no effort to avoid new strokes overlapping previous ones. Pitiful whines of discomfort quickly became gasps that gave way to a chorus of “Mmm—uuuhhh---aah—oww—oooh---noooo!” that sounded increasingly tearful as it went on. The only mercy Sherlock could find in all this was the fact that the strapping easily shifted focus from how badly his cock hurt! One might imagine that with all the tears already shed today that none would remain, but that assumption was quite wrong. As the belt ended its upward journey, stopping at the hollows of his knees, Sherlock was crying once more.

Mycroft focused on the task in front of him with considerable determination. It had been such a long time since the last time Sherlock was punished for using. Perhaps, if he made an equal, if not stronger impression this time, it could be the final time. With that thought in mind, Mycroft forced himself to ignore the whimpers, tears and pleas for mercy; a great many pleas at that!

“I’ll be good, I’ll be good!” Sherlock begged through his tears. He held on to the cushion for dear life as the belt fell time and again, increasing the heat and ache with each blow. “Oww, please Mycroft! Stop! I can’t, please! It’ll never happen again! I’ll be good, I’ll be a good boy, I promise!” Sherlock would happily promise the moon and stars and the Bank of England to Mycroft if only he stopped. It was inevitable that his body responded to the pain and in time Sherlock was shifting his hips to try and evade the belt. Mycroft’s aim was precise though and given the position he was in, there was nowhere for Sherlock to go.

After the belt landed just below Sherlock’s knees, Mycroft began a downward descent. The belt overlapped its previous strokes, turning rosy pink skin a bright red. The strokes came faster now than they had before and Sherlock’s squirming increased in response. Pleas of good behavior fell by the wayside as the younger Holmes howled with each new kiss of the belt on already tender territory. Tears gave way to sobs and finally outright wails of pain as the belt reached its starting point across Sherlock’s sit spots and began another trek up his thighs. Desperate for relief from the pain, Sherlock began twisting his body around to the point that the belt missed its mark and clipped his hip.

Mightily displeased by this, Mycroft thundered his younger brother’s name. “Sherlock! Sherlock stop that at once!” When he was unable to persuade Sherlock to stop writhing like an eel on the couch, he forced Sherlock’s legs to bend at the knee and the belt landed with an almighty crack against his brother’s now well exposed scrotum. As he expected, Sherlock instantly froze as the breath was, literally, spanked out of him. It was a devastating blow, Mycroft knew, and he was unsurprised when Sherlock keened in pain and protectively drew his knees towards his chest.

“That, little boy, was incredibly naughty,” Mycroft scolded. “I expect some wriggling, but twisting away in an escape effort that could easily see you injured by a blow to an inappropriate place, is unacceptable.” Mycroft put down the belt and forcibly moved Sherlock’s legs forward, bent at the knee once again. A flurry of sharp smacks of his hand to Sherlock’s balls was the ‘reward’ for the younger brother’s misbehavior. “No more of that, Sherlock. No. More. Or I’ll do more of that, with the belt rather than my hand. Is that quite clear?”

Despite the fact that Sherlock was now heavily sobbing as his body thrummed with pain, he nodded to signify understanding. When directed to do so, Sherlock raised his legs and Mycroft simply continued with the belt where he had left off, halfway up the now crimson thighs. Upon reaching Sherlock’s knees once again, the belt travelled downward to the sit spots. Then, it was over.

Silently, Mycroft untied his brother’s feet and watched as Sherlock rolled onto his side and curled up in ball much as he had earlier in the day. One hand went to shield his genitals while the other attempted to rub away the fire currently blazing on his thighs. Earlier in the day, such behavior might trigger an additional punishment. Now, Mycroft felt somewhat obliged to allow it. On the whole, Sherlock had done very, very well, particularly in comparison to the last time Mycroft had punished him. That, and the fact that they still had a ways to go yet prompted a bit of leniency; for now.


	2. Chapter 2

As Sherlock worked to self-soothe, Mycroft sat on the couch and gently directed Sherlock’s head towards his lap where he resumed running his fingers through the mop of curly hair. It wasn’t long before the younger man had cried himself to sleep. Mycroft reached for an orange shock blanket near the couch and covered his brother with it, gently tucking it in around him. Then, he rose from the couch to do some work at Sherlock’s desk while his brother slept.

A few hours later, Sherlock lifted his head and looked around the flat in confusion as the sunset cast shadows into the flat. Almost immediately he spotted Mycroft and groaned, flopping back down on the couch.

“Have a nice nap, brother mine?” Mycroft inquired. “I made you a sandwich, it’s in the fridge. I expect you to eat and have some tea. I’ll give you…” He paused to look at his watch. “Forty-five minutes.”

“You’re timing me? You’re going to limit how long I can eat for?” Sherlock asked, sounding rather outraged.

“No, brother mine. I’m trying to save you from yourself. If I don’t give you a time limit, you’ll pick at the sandwich and take three hours to eat it in order to delay further punishment because you know that I want you to eat properly and won’t keep you from doing so. You’re not as clever as you believe yourself to be, Sherlock. Besides, I was there when you were a boy and pulled the same stunts with Mummy,” Mycroft reminded him.

It irritated Sherlock to no end that his brother was right. That had been exactly his plan, though why he thought it would work now and not in years past, he was uncertain. Perhaps it said a great deal about his desperation at present. Resigning himself to his fate, at least for the moment, Sherlock rose from the couch and retrieved the sandwich. He stood at the counter to eat it, foregoing any attempts to sit in any chair at all. Watching the clock slowly count down to the forty-five minute mark that Mycroft had specific was nerve wracking to say the least. Sherlock couldn’t decide if it was a relief or not when the time passed, meaning he wouldn’t have to wait any longer on one hand but was about to be punished on the other. A double-edged sword, figuratively speaking.

Without saying a word, Mycroft rose from the desk and went to the pile of implements. He selected the wooden spoon and turned to face his brother. “Lie down on the floor on your back. Bend your knees and spread your legs as far apart as you can,” he instructed. “No, wait,” Mycroft decided rather suddenly. “Let’s do this in your bedroom. I’m not convinced you’ll be able to hold your position on your own and the bed frame should be quite helpful in that regard. Go on,” he said firmly. When Sherlock made his way to the bedroom, Mycroft retrieved the two fabric ties and found a third one in the duffel bag before following him down the hall.

“Head near the foot of the bed, please. The other instructions remain the same,” Mycroft directed.

“I don’t know whether to thank you or curse you,” Sherlock blurted out rather suddenly. “Or some combination thereof.” With a dejected sigh, he laid out on the floor with his head near the foot of the bed. Sherlock bent his knees, placing his feet flat on the floor, and spread his legs as wide as he could.

“I would suggest you not resort to cursing,” Mycroft warned. He knelt beside his brother and tied the fabric ties around each ankle, attaching the other end to the foot of the bedframe. “Thanking me is fine, but I won’t ask you to do so, unless you feel so moved. I doubt you do though. I wouldn’t if I was you. I am, unfortunately, not immune to your distress,” he admitted. “But I’m weighing your future use leading to overdose versus a punishment that will leave you very sore for some time but does not permanently damage you. Give me your hands.”

Sherlock offered his hands to his brother, watching as Mycroft tied them at the wrist. “You’re growing sentimental in your old age, Mycroft,” he murmured, offering a small but genuine smile. “Despite your protestations to the contrary.”

“You ridiculous little boy. You have *always* been my weakness. Not to mention my nightmare in equal measure! It is what older brothers do,” Mycroft explained. “Care for and watch over the younger ones as best as one can. It’s not as though you try hard to stay off my radar, you know.”

Sherlock snorted and shook his head. “It’s not as though you make any attempt whatsoever to not watch me with every CCTV resource you have available,” he replied. Somehow there was something comforting in knowing that statement was entirely true. Despite the somber circumstances of this moment, the brothers shared a very brief (and in Mycroft’s case, small) smile.

With Sherlock properly restrained, Mycroft knelt beside him and picked up the wooden spoon once more, tapping it against the inside of his brother’s knee. At that tap, Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes. It was a damn good thing he was restrained, he thought to himself.

Mycroft swung the wooden spoon, landing it with a terrific crack just below his brother’s knee. The oval impression left by the spoon on that tender inner thigh was immediately red and raised. He moved the spoon slightly slower and smacked again. With a flurry of swats, Mycroft snapped the spoon down his brother’s inner thigh, all the way down to his cock, which was skipped for the moment. Just one round on that thigh left it crimson, with spoon marks clearly visible. It would undoubtedly bruise. The spoon moved to the other inner thigh and started at that knee, similarly working its way down with a sharp flurry of staccato cracks that echoed in the room.

There was no describing the searing feeling the spoon left when applied so judiciously to his inner thighs, Sherlock thought. The skin was quickly set ablaze and throbbed at the continued onslaught. He didn’t open his eye to try and see but he could envision being bruised knee to knee by the time Mycroft stopped. As the spoon returned to the first inner thigh to start a second round, Sherlock whined and began to squirm. He couldn’t get far, of course, given the restraints, but he couldn’t help physically moving in response to the pain. Earlier in the day, Sherlock might have pleaded or begged for Mycroft to stop. Now, he could only squirm and cry, one step closer to being that well spanked little boy just as he always was after Mycroft punished him for using drugs.

Mycroft hadn’t thought it was possible for skin to turn darker than crimson, but the second round of harsh spoon smacks elevated the color to darker levels. The outlines of the spoon’s head were now becoming bruises. Sherlock would need to sleep with a bed pillow between his knees for the next few days at least! “Are you learning your lesson Sherlock? Are you learning what a dirty and dangerous habit drugs is? And that I will not allow you to destroy yourself by using, regardless of the reasons behind it?” When Sherlock didn’t respond quickly enough, Mycroft aimed a searing swat near the nest of curls at the base of the flaccid cock. Another swat, just as terrific, landed on the other side too.

Yelling loudly at the spanks to such an intimate area, Sherlock immediately bobbed his head in agreement. Was he ever learning a lesson! It was one that would be impossible to forget.

“Let’s try a verbal response, naughty boy. Answer me properly,” Mycroft said sternly. Once more he provided motivation with sharp smacks on either side of Sherlock’s penis.

“Yes sir!” Sherlock whimpered, his voice garbled by tears. He drew his hands up over his eyes as he began to sob pitifully.

“That’s better. Let’s finish up in here, hm?” Mycroft adjusted his position so that he could hold onto Sherlock’s cock with one hand and tug it up to expose his balls even further for a dose of the spoon. His brother’s tears went up in intensity before Mycroft even began to smack them. That didn’t deter the eldest Holmes though. He put decent force behind the spoon as he swung it to crack against the exposed balls. Slowly and methodically Mycroft applied heavy swats, mentally keeping count of them. Sherlock wailed, his body jerked in response to the discipline meted out, shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs. He couldn’t even begin to keep count; Sherlock only hoped that each would be the last.

When Sherlock’s breathing became increasingly erratic and worryingly wheezy, Mycroft stopped. Seventeen was a good enough number after all. The spoon was set aside so he could undo the fabric ties to set Sherlock free. As soon as the younger man was free, he curled up on his side and continued to sob heavily. The sound of it seemed to squeeze his heart tightly and Mycroft somehow found himself collecting a pillow from the bed and gently inserting it between Sherlock’s legs. Naturally, he blamed it on that pesky sentiment he had for his wayward little brother. With the pillow thus given, ensuring that Sherlock could curl up without his well spanked inner thighs rubbing together, Mycroft sat on the floor beside the younger man.

Sentiment, it seemed, took hold of Sherlock as well. As soon as his brother sat down beside him, Sherlock put his head in Mycroft’s lap and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s middle, physically locking on to him while struggling to calm down. After a moment, Sherlock felt strong arms lock on to him in return.

“Shh, brother mine. You’ll be alright. I’m here and I wouldn’t harm you. I know it hurts and that you are very sore and sorry. This is a very big lesson for you, isn’t it?” It was a rhetorical question and Mycroft continued to speak, rather than see if Sherlock would respond. “It’s a struggle to learn big lessons, especially ones you thought had been learnt before.” Mycroft’s tone was soft and gentle now, knowing Sherlock needed it to be. He always seemed to become so little, in a way, whenever Mycroft punished him this way.

“I have you and it’ll be alright. I’m sure you cannot imagine that just now, since you’re so sore, but I promise you it will be. A clean slate for you after this, and I know you’ll be a good boy and stay away from those drugs, won’t you? We’ll all be here to help you, even if it takes some time to recover,” Mycroft assured him. He wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Sherlock caved in and used or attempted to use in the first few weeks of recovery and Mycroft would not punish him for it. Falling off the wagon and getting back on it was part of the process. Purposefully causing harm to himself, no matter what the reason, for a sustained period of time was what precipitated punishments like this.

It took some time for Sherlock to calm down and when he did, Mycroft guided him back out to the sitting room where he settled Sherlock on the couch and set about making a meal for them both. A few cups of tea did much to restore Sherlock’s equilibrium, as did supper. It wasn’t fancy fare by any means as Mycroft wasn’t known for culinary skills, but it was hearty and good and for once Sherlock was quite hungry.

“Are we finishing tonight?” Sherlock asked when his plate was scraped clean. He’d eaten standing up, using the counter for a table. Mycroft had done the same as a gesture of brotherly affection that Sherlock had appreciated.

“We are. Are you certain you’ve had enough to eat? Do you want another cuppa first?” Mycroft wasn’t surprised when Sherlock declined more to eat and drink. “Very well then. Straddle the arm of the couch facing the back of it.” He didn’t watch to see if Sherlock obeyed, instead returning to the assortment of implements he’d brought. The short, thin strap was selected this time. It was the perfect size to redden between the cheeks and, as he intended to use it for in this case, apply punishment directly to Sherlock’s anus. “Good boy,” Mycroft praised when he saw Sherlock had obeyed. “Now reach behind you and spread your cheeks wide. We’ll start with the strap.”


	3. Chapter 3

Having to assist in his own punishment made it that much worse, Sherlock thought to himself. Still, he was ready for things to be done with and forgiveness given, so he chose not to fuss about it. The position was a painful one, not least of which because he was straddling the couch arm and putting pressure on his well-spanked cock and balls. That pressure seemed to increase as Sherlock reached back with both hands to spread his cheeks. It was humiliating, exposing himself in that way. All of it had been, if Sherlock was honest with himself. There was something particularly embarrassing though, about being punished on his arsehole. The exposure of the position, the intimacy of the area being disciplined, and Mycroft’s uncanny ability to skillfully apply punishment there made it an utterly miserable experience.

“Good boy,” Mycroft praised as Sherlock spread his cheeks. He moved closer to the younger man and gently rubbed Sherlock’s lower back, before equally gently pushing down it. “Arch your back,” he encouraged. “Bum nice and high now. It’s important you present yourself properly for your punishment.” When he was satisfied with Sherlock’s position, Mycroft trailed the strap between the well parted crimson globes in order to line it up before delivering the first stroke.

There was no warning tap this time. Sherlock could feel the strap leave his cleft and squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation. Seconds later, the strap fell with an astounding _crack_ sound directly on top of his anus. “Ooooowwww!” Sherlock howled. Before he could recover from the searing, burning pain across his hole, the strap fell again and again.

Mycroft kept a brisk pace of strokes, watching the skin around Sherlock’s anus turn first pink, then red. The hole itself spasmed and crinkled in response to the blows, making it look as though it were winking. Ignoring Sherlock’s howls of protest and the squirming that commenced.

Somehow Sherlock was able to keep his cheeks open, allowing the strap to continue licking firing onto his arsehole. He moaned, groaned, and howled in pain as the strap feel, seemingly without end. It was horribly painful and he began to bounce his hips and squirm over the couch arm. A part of him expected Mycroft to shout at him to be still, but it seemed as if his big brother was well aware of how difficult that would be.

Despite Sherlock’s bouncing bottom, Mycroft never missed his target. The strap left marks up and down the exposed cleft with the anus taking the brunt of the strokes. Sherlock’s bouncing and wailing grew more desperate and Mycroft knew he’d have to stop soon. He mentally counted out a dozen more blows, bringing the totally to nearly three dozen, and stopped. Gently Mycroft removed Sherlock’s fingers from his cheeks, allowing him to rest for several minutes while the younger man cried pitifully.

“I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I’ll be such a good boy,” Sherlock pleaded as Mycroft began to stroke his hair. “Please I’ll be good, no more, no more, I’ll be so good!”

“I know little boy, I know. You always make such promises,” Mycroft reminded him. “I know you’re sorry and that you will be very good after this. I know you won’t let yourself down like this again, or let me down like this either.”

Mycroft’s disappointment was a crushing blow and Sherlock wept at the knowledge of it. One hand reached out to grab Mycroft’s hand, squeezing it hard.

“We’re almost done, brother mine,” Mycroft said soothingly. He had planned to fig Sherlock for interfering and give him a long time out in the corner on a nice hard chair to squirm, clench and wriggle for a while. Abruptly, however, he changed his mind. Sherlock was nearing the limit of his endurance and it was not Mycroft’s intention to be deliberately cruel.

“Take another moment to catch your breath and calm yourself. Then I want you in the center of the room on all fours, head down and bottom up with your legs well spread. That hole is going to take a caning before I put you over my knee and cane you until all the wriggling and squirming is spanked right out of you.” Normally a cane could be difficult to wield for an over the knee spanking, but Mycroft had located one online a few year ago that was the perfect length and weight for just such use while still being able to suffice for a proper touch-your-toes caning.

Sherlock took those few moments of reprieve to quiet his tears and catch his breath. Finally he decided it was really better to finish than to spend further time quieting himself only to quickly become loud and tearful once more. He rose from the arm of the couch and moved to the center of the room, going down on all fours. Sherlock then leaned down until his head was resting on his hands on top of the floor and his arse was high in the air. Carefully he spread his legs until they could spread no further, then arched his back to make his bottom an even more prominent target. Sherlock could hear Mycroft’s footsteps as he went to trade the strap for the cane and came to stand beside him.

“Here, brother mine,” Mycroft said quietly. He handed Sherlock a cushion from the couch to rest his head on. “Head down again.” He waited until Sherlock was settled with the cushion and took his place standing over him, somewhat straddling Sherlock’s body beneath him. Mycroft took his time lining up the cane just right before bringing it down with a _thwack_ across Sherlock’s anus. The skin turned white, then quickly grew red in response to the strike. It wouldn’t take long to raise welts or bruise Sherlock with the cane, so Mycroft made sure he was careful with the application of it.

The younger man’s body jerked in response to the blow and Sherlock had to fight the urge to get up and run… somewhere. Somewhere away from canes smacking his arsehole! Instead, he maintained position and grunted in response to the white hot burning the cane left behind. The cane fell again, eliciting an “Ahhhh!” of pain. Repeatedly, the cane fell directly on that sensitive part of Sherlock’s anatomy and he howled, wailed, groaned, grunted, and pleaded with Mycroft to stop. Repeated promises to be good went unanswered. “Ooooh, gaaaah, oowwww!” Sherlock howled. He hissed and grunted at the continued blows.

Tuning out Sherlock’s begging, Mycroft applied the cane judiciously in slow, firm strokes. He watched as the skin reddened, then grew darker in color. After a dozen strokes, Mycroft paused to assess the damage. No welts, though it was tending towards bruising. A few welts to that tender area might do Sherlock a world of good, Mycroft thought to himself. The caning then resumed, with renewed vigor behind it as Sherlock wailed continuously through the now faster, harder strokes. He had no doubt the pain was incredible and given the way a cane could both sting and burn, saying Sherlock was ‘uncomfortable’ would be the understatement of the year.

Eight strokes later, Sherlock’s howling had reached an incredibly high pitched level. Mycroft stopped the caning and inspected the target. Welts stood out prominently now amongst the darker skin that surrounded Sherlock’s anus, the sign of a job well done.

“Alright, that’s done now,” Mycroft soothed, beginning to rub Sherlock’s back. “No more punishment there, I promise. I know it’s miserable, but you took that so well Sherlock and I’m proud of you for that. On the whole you’ve been a good little boy today and I appreciate that. Good boy.” He spent several minutes kneeling beside his brother, attempting to help Sherlock calm down, finally maneuvering the younger man onto his side to rest his head on Mycroft’s lap as he sat on the floor.

“In a few minutes, when you’ve caught your breath, I want you to get some water from the fridge. Drink a full glass of it. It wouldn’t do for you to become dehydrated. For one thing, I don’t think Dr. Watson would forgive me for allowing it to happen on my watch. That would ultimately make my job much harder I think. He might attempt to bar me from coming to verbally spar with you during the remainder of your recovery and that would be a horror of untold proportions, wouldn’t it? Having to suffer through all the goldfish without relief.”

Despite the pain he was in, Sherlock managed to crack a smile at that. “Would you really let John keep you away? If you wished to come?”

Mycroft shrugged. “You know how I detest leg work. Granted, I could always kidnap him again, but that’s time consuming. Better to be begrudgingly tolerated, I think. Only for your sake, brother mine. Besides, aside from the tantrum in the hospital morgue where he attempted to crack your head open with his fist, Dr. Watson has taken good care of you. I imagine you provoked that though, the incident in the morgue. Give him a reason to pummel you in response to Mary’s death and lessen your own guilt in the matter. It really wasn’t your fault, brother mine. You are aware of that, yes?” He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, searching for recognition of that fact.

The younger man merely shrugged in response, causing Mycroft to sigh. “Well, one problem at a time I suppose.” He fell silent for several long minutes as he gently ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, allowing Sherlock to catch his breath and adjust to the pain. “Last bit now,” he finally said. Mycroft nudged Sherlock’s head from his lap and stood up to retrieve a chair from the kitchen. He set it in the center of the sitting room and sat down, waiting for Sherlock to finish his glass of water. “Across my knee Sherlock," Mycroft finally ordered.

The younger man shot his brother a sorrowful look as he closed the distance between himself and his brother. Sherlock carefully bent over his big brother’s lap and gave a disgruntled whine as Mycroft moved him a bit further over his knees. Long before he was really ready, the cane tapped against his cheeks.

The cane began to fall in short, rapid strokes meant to sting far more than mark and welt Sherlock’s skin. Mycroft kept a tight hold of Sherlock’s waist with his left hand as his brother squirmed and howled over his knee.

“Ow! Please, please don’t! Ow! Mycroft please!” Sherlock wailed. He wriggled, kicked, squirming and even made an attempt to roll off Mycroft’s lap, all to no avail. His big brother wasn’t going to let him get away. Sherlock would have to take his caning.

Mycroft had no doubt that the caning hurt terribly. Sherlock had already been quite soundly spanked, so the cane’s sting and burn must have been hellish, if all the squirms and kicks were anything to go by. Up and down Sherlock’s bottom the cane travelled at lightning speed. He didn’t count the strokes this time around because he had no set number in mind. Instead, Mycroft was waiting for all the kicking and moving around to cease; a sign that Sherlock had given in to his punishment completely. He blocked the sound of his brother’s wailing and howling, waiting for that sign.

After several minutes of fire hot, stinging lines bloomed on his skin as the cane had fallen repeatedly, Sherlock finally went limp across Mycroft’s lap and sobbed brokenly. The cane stopped falling then and he could feel Mycroft’s hand on his back, rubbing it gently. “All done, brother mine. Your punishment is over and you are forgiven. The slate is clean now and hopefully will stay that way for a very, very long time. I know you’ll be a good boy from now on and won’t put harmful substances into your body.” He smiled to himself as Sherlock nodded his agreement with that statement. “Good boy, Sherlock,” Mycroft reiterated. “Good, brave boy.”

Sherlock soaked up the gentle back rub, making no effort to rise from Mycroft’s lap. He didn’t get attention, genuine affectionate attention, that often. It wasn’t what they did, or at least they hadn’t for a very long time with only rare exceptions.

Allowing Sherlock to remain over his knee for as long as he liked, Mycroft continued to speak soothingly to him until finally the younger man was calm. Once both men were on their feet, it was easy to see that Sherlock was beyond exhausted.

“Go find some pajamas Sherlock,” Mycroft directed. “Or at the very least a dressing gown and I’ll tuck you into bed.” He wasn’t surprised when Sherlock obeyed without question and followed him into the bedroom. Mycroft turned down the covers and took one of the pillows away from the head of the bed while Sherlock found a dressing gown that was soft and loose around his body. “Lie down on your side. You’ll want this between your legs,” Mycroft explained as he held out the pillow. “Get as comfortable as you can.”

Certain there was no such thing as ‘comfortable’ and equally sure there wouldn’t be for quite some time, the younger man split the difference and found the position that caused him the least discomfort. Sherlock laid on his side, put a pillow between his legs, and leaned onto another in a sort of warped form of a pregnancy support pillow.

Mycroft tucked the covers around Sherlock and patted his shoulder. He turned away from the bed, only to hear a whine arise from behind him.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock whinged.

“Nowhere, apparently.” Mycroft shook his head. “Spoiled boy.” He didn’t need to be told what Sherlock wanted, helping himself to the bed. Mycroft sat against the head board and began to stroke Sherlock’s hair again. “Go to sleep little boy. I’ll stay until you are.”

Settled, Sherlock let out a sigh of relief that it was over and he had survived. Tomorrow, a fresh- but sore- start awaited him.


End file.
